“You’re much less grumpy,” she said one day. At long last, I was allowed to take supervised walks outside. Years ago, the psych hospital had been converted from a stately home and boasted extensive walled gardens. The bills were eyewatering, according to Marcus. He still pitched up to visit every week, God knew why. Guilt, my therapist suggested. For being such a rubbish, selfish friend. She didn’t like him much, either.

  “Thank you.”

  Along with my appetite, my manners had improved. The fresh air made me feel better too. They had even begun muttering about a community step-down unit.

  “Do you still want to phone Florian? You can if you like. Now you are well enough. I’m sure you’ll want to thank him.”

  We walked another loop of the vegetable plot in silence. Even in the nadir of my madness, Florian’s pictures had hung on the walls of my mind. Now he occupied my thoughts more and more, and over the last few days, I’d begun catching glimpses of silver, especially at times like now, surrounded by so much nature. I’d hurt him, badly. And even though the therapist insisted my illness was to blame, I couldn’t escape an uneasy sensation I should have done better. Guilt, my therapist explained, for how I had treated people who cared for me, was a normal reaction too. And I sign I was on the mend. Not that it helped.

  Recently, I’d added my therapist to the list of things I liked, although I had no intention of telling her. Though we still referred to the lists, my therapist and I had moved on a few steps in my recovery. We’d passed the milestone of being able to discuss my future without orange insisting on a seat at the table. Green was there most days, yellow now and again too, especially on crisp late winter afternoons like this one, when the sun sat high in a cloudless blue sky.

  “You don’t have to decide today. There isn’t any rush.”

  “I know.”

  A slight bone of contention between us was the word business, which had finagled its way onto both lists. Somehow, we hadn’t yet squared that circle. Without question, my mad brain enjoyed being put to work; it enjoyed the mathematical conundrums, the puzzle-solving. Success and ambition rewarded me in sharp navy, not necessarily a bad thing, in moderation. That was my argument anyhow; my sage therapist wasn’t so sure. She compared navy to an addiction, like alcohol. Ergo, becoming teetotal was the next obvious step. Which had made me see orange.

  We stopped to admire a neat row of early potato plants. I told her about the best potatoes I’d ever eaten and how they were fertilised with seaweed. I wasn’t certain she believed me, but I made a mental note to add potatoes to the likes list.

  “I’m not going to phone him, but I appreciate the offer. I’m going to wait. Until I’m well enough to thank him in person.”

  “You’re very wise, Charles.”

  “No I’m not. I’m fucking loopy, and you damn well know it.”

  CHAPTER 30

  FLORIAN – THREE MONTHS LATER

  “Hey, el capitano!”

  I felt like anything but.

  The start of the new harvesting season was always the same; a molehill of salt and a responsibility to turn it into a mountain if I hoped to put food on the table. And an overriding sensation of aching cold muscles relearning forgotten paths. Shivery misty mornings gave way to cool breezy afternoons, and the brisk wind settled in my bones.

  Furthermore, this season came with the added burden of overseeing the smooth running of the cooperative and proving all the naysayers wrong. Oh, and a dull, lingering heartache, too. How could I forget that?

  Nico ambled towards me, his tats and fine physique covered in oilskins, from top to toe. The salaud still managed to look sexy.

  “You’re famous,” he declared, with a nod to my salt flat. “You and your muddy pond.”

  “Oh yeah?” I stopped shoring up the far bank and leaned on my spade. “Does that mean I’m going to be rich, too?”

  Delving inside his oilskin, he produced a near-empty pack of fags and pulled one out. “Nah.” He poked it between his lips. “Keep raking.”

  We sat side by side on my narrow bench, me taking nips of coffee from my thermos and Nico happily smoking, puffing lazy rings into the damp air.

  “Go on, then. The suspense is killing me.”

  “My mum’s sister is visiting for a few days from Lille. You remember, the one that got breast cancer.”

  I nodded. It hadn’t been a lie when I’d told Charles that Nico and Jerome were like brothers. I knew their families as well as my own. The women in Nico’s family played Russian roulette with a dodgy breast cancer gene. In more uplifting news, Jerome’s family now included a chubby baby boy, the apple of his grandfather’s eye.

  “She’s had all the treatment and she’s in remission.”

  Ash dropped from the end of his cigarette, darkening to grey mud as it soaked into the wet ground at our feet.

  “That’s good.”

  “Anyway, yesterday evening, her and my mum went to an art exhibition in Ars. Put on by one of the groups of local artists. My aunt likes all that kind of bollocks, and it was opening night, so free wine and canapés were up for grabs.”

  Idly, I picked at a wood splinter poking out of the bench. I had no idea where this story was headed but was in no rush to get on. Nico visited me most mornings these days, and his familiar company and catching up with the gossip was nice. After Christmas, as the tourism dropped off, L’Escale closed for a couple of months. This particular winter had felt longer, colder, and more miserable than any other.

  “Alors, while they stuffed their faces, they felt they ought to wander around. And you’re not going to believe this, Flor, but one of the artists has plastered about twenty pictures of you all over the wall! You! My mum nearly choked on her crab vol-au-vent!”

  “What??”

  He waved his cigarette at me. “You! Here, raking your salt flat at sunset, looking all mean and moody. Apparently, there are some close-ups of your face too. She says it’s obviously you, and very flattering, according to my aunt, who’s always had a thing for you, even though I keep telling her you’re gay and she’s like, fifty, and married. Anyway…”

  Nico stubbed out his cigarette before pocketing it. “Some of the pictures look like you’ve got the world’s worst hangover, or the artist had when they drew it, because my mum says they’re all made up of fat black lines and your face is distorted. Like he or she has spent too long in the Picasso section of the Louvre.”

  Oh, fucking merde. “Are… are… is she sure it’s me?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, of course. She’s known you since you were in nappies! They both spotted it straight away! And even if she had been uncertain, the whole fucking exhibition has your big fat girly name written across the top of it. Florian. You’ve got yourself an obsessive admirer, mate.”

  Putain de merde. Charles. It had to be. A whirlwind of emotions spiralled through me. Overwhelming relief at first. That he was alive and well, or well enough to put on an exhibition at any rate. And after that, I didn’t know how I felt. Angry, hopeful, embarrassed? Full of renewed fresh heartache?

  Unaware of the turmoil he’d triggered, Nico helped himself to another fag and I held out my hand.

  “Give me one of those.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “I do today. Putain, Nico. Just fucking… putain.”

  My hand shook as I lifted the cigarette to my lips. I took a long drag; the thing would either settle my nerves or make me throw up. Damn Charles. I was fucking getting over him. Sorting out the cooperative had been a blessing in disguise, because I’d thrown myself into it. Hadn’t had time to worry about him or lose myself in what could have been. And now a new season was starting. Tourists were returning to the island, some attractive homosexual ones amongst them, with a bit of luck. Damn him.

  “Was the artist there?”

  Nico shook his head. “No, my mum said not. And they made an effort to find out the name, once she realised they were all pictures of you. The signature on them was an indecipherable squiggle in the corner, but the pamphlet said they were painted by someone called C. Heyer. One of the other artists said a man had been around at the beginning but then left early. Don’t get too excited—he was probably the dad of one of your girly groupies who hang around here all summer. Giving her a hand setting up. Some of those girls like to paint, don’t they? They’re not all photographers.”

  “He wasn’t,” I managed, and barked a cough as the unaccustomed smoke burned the back of my throat. “The paintings aren’t by a woman. It’s Charles. He drew me. Lots of times. I saw some of them when he was living here—the charcoal sketches of my face. He’s good, Nic, really good.”

  I’d caught a glimpse of the anguished ones, too, as I’d torn through his apartment to rescue him and again on my way out. Not only had he daubed the walls, but there were sketches too. Where he’d split the canvas from pressing so hard, where charcoal had been mixed with rage and fear and sadness and fuck knows what else running riot in that poor man’s head. Huge angry splodges of oranges and reds, ripped to shreds and tossed to the floor.

  Nico swore. “I don’t care how good he is. That fucker has got a nerve coming back here after what he did to you. If I’d have known it was him, I’d never have told you.”

  “He was ill, Nic, he didn’t know what he was doing. You said so yourself.”

  How many times had I told myself that? How hard had I tried to believe it?

  “Don’t go and track him down again, Flor. Honestly, you’re better off without him. He messed with your head. You’ve only just got back to normal.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Yeah, right. So that solemn vow lasted all of twenty-four hours.

  I wore my hair loose, framing my face, and topped it off with a woollen beanie, even though it made my head hot and itchy. Was it an effort to distance myself from the subject of the wall of pictures? Possibly. Armed with neither a goal nor a plan, only a maelstrom of mixed emotions, I chained my bike up a few paces from the gallery and gave myself a minute to compose myself. In all probability, he wouldn’t be in the gallery anyhow. I’d have a polite scoot around the paintings, die a small death from embarrassment, and get the hell out of there before I did something stupid like burst into tears.

  Half the businesses in Ars were upmarket galleries flogging art and pottery at extortionate prices. Some were small and niche, like the tiny one in the square, exclusively exhibiting the landscape works of two well-established local artists. Others, like the one I steeled myself to enter, were large and airy, and advertised a rolling calendar of different exhibits throughout the year.

  With my head bowed, I stepped inside, thankful for both the cool draught following me and that I wasn’t alone. I’d waited until mid-afternoon, figuring it would be a popular time for tourists to browse, and I wasn’t wrong. Several groups of two and three milled about, and I hovered next to a young couple, hoping to blend in without attracting attention. Foreign languages spoken in hushed voices bounced off the clean white walls.

  Staring up at several images of oneself in various states of happiness, activity, and undress was a peculiar sensation. Surrounded by strangers doing the same thing felt even odder. Flattering, I supposed, but not altogether pleasant. Aside from the centrepiece—a large watercolour of me bent over my rake silhouetted against the setting sun—the artist had restricted himself to above the waist. Thank God, although in some of the sketches, anyone with an iota of intelligence could surmise what pleasures occurring below the waist had resulted in such a fucking delighted expression on my face.

  My mum would like the big watercolour, not that she was able to afford it. Behind the image of the raking salt harvester, Charles had painted my salt marsh with an almost magical element to it. As if the sun’s dying rays had transformed each individual crystal of salt on the surface of the water into sparkly silver glitter. If I’d been alone, I’d have reached out and traced my fingertips over it.

  No doubt my mum would get wind of the exhibition, sooner or later, so I’d pick up a postcard of that one on the way out in preparation for a future inquisition. She’d like a couple of profiles of my face, too, simple pencil sketches, but each with a delicate, green-stemmed silver sparkly flower drawn on my cheek. Even as they brought a lump to my throat, I couldn’t help smiling a little.

  With a pounding heart, I moved on to the series of smaller charcoal sketches of my face, shoulders, and bare chest, set on a creamy, yellowy background. My mother would probably not approve of those. Especially the one that was clearly my sex face. I pulled the beanie lower over my ears. Oh, fucking merde, how embarrassing was that?

  Though subtly erotic, those weren’t the pictures that would upset her. No, that was reserved for a series of portraits of my face, made up of jagged lines, smudged and broken where he’d pressed charcoal so hard the paper underneath had torn. Angry slashes of orange crayon zig-zagged through one. In another, a strip of orange shielded my eyes, like a blindfold, another closed my mouth, like a gag.

  On a deep exhale, not sure if I could stand much more, I leaned closer, studying the title cards underneath – one written in English, the other a French translation. Anguish, I read, letting the unfamiliar sequence of consonants and vowels roll over my tongue. Angoisse. What am I without you?

  His presence spoke to me even before I heard his voice. Or perhaps it was the loss of his absence making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. A young woman was asking him, in halting French, whether any of the works were for sale.

  “Non,” he replied, in a pleasant tone. He spoke lightly, confidently, the accent I’d teased him about as seductive as ever. “I’m so sorry. They are all sold.”

  She thanked him, her disappointment evident, and I listened to her and her companion’s footsteps fading away. Charles stayed where he was; in the stretched silence I fancied I heard the rise and fall of his chest.

  “They are all sold?” I asked into the silence. “Waouh. People are paying good money for pictures of me. I must be in the wrong profession. Perhaps I should take up modelling.”

  “You would have a fantastic career as a model. You would be in demand constantly.”

  His shoes echoed on the tiled floor as he took a step closer. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms.

  “I lied to her, Florian. They were never for sale. None. I would never part with any of them.”

  A tortured sigh escaped my throat. Myself and the strangers around me were voyeurs, peering through an open window into Charles’s tortured soul. I wished I’d never seen the damn pictures; they were all too painful. Even the one of me hunched over my rake.

  “Florian, I…”

  “How long have you been staying here? On the island?”

  “About six weeks,” he answered. “I joined the local art club. They were arranging this exhibit and asked me if I had anything to show. So I said yes.”

  “Why haven’t I seen you, or heard you were back?”

  At this time of year in Loix, locals still outnumbered tourists.

  “Because I’m renting a place here in Ars. I… I didn’t know if you would want to see me, so I avoided Loix. I didn’t want it to be awkward for you.”

  I laughed at that. “Putain, and you don’t think this is awkward?”

  I gestured to the twenty or so inanimate Florians staring down at me. “And you’ve called it Florian, for fucks sake! Is that on the off chance one of the hundreds of people who have known me all my life wouldn’t recognise me?”

  “It’s a beautiful name,” he stated. “Why wouldn’t I use it?”

  I turned around at that. Crazy to think I’d walked into this gallery scared I’d not be able to stave off tears. Now we were face-to-face, I was seconds away from hitting him. Especially as he looked so fucking wonderful.

  “I found out that St Florian is the patron saint of firefighters,” he continued, as if it fucking mattered. As if he wasn’t standing two feet away all filled out and healthy and even sporting a fucking tan. “And of chimneysweeps and those caught in floods. He’s a protector, like you.”

  Except for when it came to protecting myself.

  “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come.”

  I stepped around him, needing out. The spotlights in the gallery were too bright, the air stuffy, the perfume of a posh woman nearby too overpowering. And people were starting to notice us; I’d raised my voice; the man at the reception desk frowned in my direction. Unseeing, I pushed open the door, the keys to my bike lock already gripped in my hand.

  “Florian, wait.” Charles hurried after me. “I’m sorry.”

  I stood from where I’d bent over the bike lock. I had to go. Furious tears had started to gather behind my eyes; I would not let him see me like this.

  “What exactly are you sorry for?” I manoeuvred my bike roughly out of the rack. “For the art display or for disappearing without a trace?”

  Or for breaking my heart?

  “Both, Florian,” he said. “I’m sorry for both. Listen: I’ll take the pictures down if you don’t like them.”

  Blood whooshed through my ears as I straightened up. How could I not like them? Some of them, anyhow. They showed I’d once meant something to him. That despite hanging me out to dry, he’d cared. Which was not the same as me wanting everyone I knew seeing my every emotion bared.

  “Why on earth did you put them up on display?”

  “Because I wanted to celebrate you. It seemed a good idea. Obviously, it wasn’t.”

  “Not one of your better ones, no.”

  “And also because I wanted the world to know how beautiful you are. And… and to know how much I loved you. And how much I still do.”